


Plus Tard | Later

by FreckledSkittles



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Fluff, Fluff and Angst, French Jean Kirstein, Implied Reiner Braun/Bertolt Hoover, M/M, Minor Krista Lenz | Historia Reiss/Ymir, because jean is a nerd, but he's super french, but like only a little bit of angst, but that's only if you squint, i cannot believe that's a tag holy moly, like the straight outta france type of french, marco bott is an angel from heaven, recluse!jean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-08 13:42:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5499143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreckledSkittles/pseuds/FreckledSkittles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I’m a recluse for a few reasons. One: because I fucking want to. Two: I’m a French immigrant who had to hide away his accent since he was four years old. Three: I need the peace and quiet if I want to get work done and pay my rent. Four: Eren Jaeger.</p><p>No one bothered me. I went to the store every Sunday and got what I needed for the week: food, wine, coffee, some paint. But then my car just had to get lodged into a snowbank, and Marco Bodt just had to be passing along and found it his saintly responsibility to help me out. This guy stayed to dig my car out.</p><p>And he still hasn’t left me alone."</p><p>For the JeanMarco Gift Exchange.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Plus Tard | Later

**Author's Note:**

  * For [x_carnivale_x (commodorecliche)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/commodorecliche/gifts).



> Oh man I went so overboard with this. There's so much French and so much wRITING it's like 20+ pages wow. There's not a ton of French, per say, but there are a few things that should be noted aha. So I'll put those translations at the end.
> 
> But this little gift is for x_carnivale_x! I really enjoyed this prompt and I hope you enjoyed it!

“Can I help you with that?”

I’ve never heard a dreaded pair of words strung together before.

It’s not unexpected, of course; it’s a perfect representation of my life. Born in France, forced against my three-year-old will to move to America, to a terrible place called “Trost, New York” that is horridly snowy and usually littered with wasted university students who clutter up  _ everything _ and find it in their liquor-littered souls to bother everything they touch and everyone they come across. One of those “everyones” being me, Jean Kirschtein, local recluse born in world-renowned France, who is never going to be able to return home.

I am a recluse for a few reasons: one of them is because I fucking want to, and your opinion on it matters little to me. If you have a problem with that,  _ casse-toi _ ,  _ merci beaucoup. _

The second reason is because of my previously-stated status. I’m a French immigrant who has tried, and failed, to hide away his accent since he came here. Language is not for anyone, and English did not enjoy me or my tongue that is so used to smooth vowels and rolling consonants that are a melody to one’s unsuspecting ears. It spiked in high school before I dropped out: all those people crowding around me, begging me to speak and say something “fancy”; questions of my home, if I’ve been to Paris, if I’ve seen the Eiffel Tower, if I really do drink wine, if I’m really into men—

Frustrating. Utterly frustrating.

My third reason for being a recluse is because of my work, which consists of commissioning requests and sending them to the address provided. A painter cannot work in a noisy setting, with a clutter of kitchen utensils or children padding around the house or parents who want you to learn the “glorious English” that they have mastered, or the parents who want you to embrace whatever newfound Americanism they are deluded on, so that I, too, can contribute to this great nation that was “built on immigrants like us”. I hate to burst your bubble,  _ maman, _ but most Americans do not acknowledge the fact that their families were once immigrants who made it to this country. 

The fourth and last reason: Eren Jaeger. That’s all you need to know, and that’s all I’m going to say. That persistent Francophone wouldn’t get off of me. And now, as the dreaded son of the landlord I pay my rent to, he still pops up from time to time with help on homework that I always refuse him or even to try and get me to befriend him. I hardly ever pay into his games. I don’t need another swoon from how “French you just sounded.”  _ Mon dieu. _

For a very long time, no one bothered me. I was left alone to my own devices, in a small cottage in the middle of nowhere. I like it that way, and that’s how I want it to stay.

That would change, of course, when I went to the store on the first Sunday of November, as part of my monthly. There was a Wal-Mart beside a craft store, which I needed if I wanted to work; it was the most convenient place. I never ran into a person who wanted to talk to me; I never saw someone I knew. It was a perfect location for me to shop in peace, get what I needed, and return to my reclusive cottage.

That first Sunday of November was when this all changed, when I found my car stuck in a snowbank, the tires planted in a rut that I knew I wouldn’t be able to get out of. I must have done something wrong, or maybe it was the balance after the successful selling of my work the week before. For whatever reason, the snow decided to be harsh that day, and now, my quick trip was turning into a length I was not enjoying.

After shoving groceries into my car, I got into the front seat, one foot out of the door, and started the engine. I knew it was useless to try and force it out like this, but I had no other choice. There was food to be saved, canvases to be painted, reclusion to be returned.

It took the third try of whirling the wheels of trying to rev myself free when I realized that someone was standing by the car door, hands empty but expression full of genuine concern, smile gentle and actually…friendly? Like he was some expert at this conversation thing.

He was my downfall. I had a terrible feeling of it from the start.

x-x-x

“Can I help you with that?”

I hate him already. He had perfectly white teeth, perfectly tan skin, embedded only by freckles that clustered on his cheeks and bridged over his nose, perfectly parted hair that was symmetrically flawless. Looking him up and down, I couldn’t find a single thing wrong with him, except for the torn red sneakers on his feet that definitely needed to be thrown out. There was not a single blemish on him otherwise, and I wanted to punch him for it.

French words linger on my tongue, but I swallow them and opt for shaking my head. I wasn’t going to suffer from a rousing game of “Say Something in French”. I already had that from the landlord’s manchild last week.

His eyes wander to the back of my car, probably inspecting my tires, and he smiles back at me. “You’re really stuck in here,” he declares. Really now? I hadn’t noticed.

“I’m fine,” I say, forcing my accent down my throat as much as I can. I must be out of practice, for a little trill follows after my English. I abandon the effort of trying to hide it and just let it flow. “Really, it’s not needed.”

An eyebrow raises as I speak, but whatever he may be thinking, he doesn’t voice it. Instead, he steals a glance over his shoulder and points to somewhere behind him. “Stay right here, alright? I think I have something that may help you.”

I can’t help but roll my eyes, swinging both legs out to hang outside, as he scampers off back the way he had come. “I don’t have a choice, do I?”

He turns back around to smile at me, wide and amused and  _ mon dieu _ he must be having a field day with this. I hope he gets distracted and never comes back. (I would say he should trip and fall, but he might actually be able to help me out, so I still need him. Not because I want to be nice to him. Not at all.)

The extra-friendly stranger returns a short while with a snow shovel, of all things, perched on his shoulders. It’s extremely ugly too, with a shiny red handle and a shiny green end and I hate it because it’s something only this guy would have.

“What’s your name?”

I snort as he starts to scrape away some of the snow that has barricaded my tires, scooting it back and away so that I have a better path to get out. “ _ Pardon? _ ”

He glances up at me when I speak French, and I half-expect him to say something about it; it’s what everyone else does. But, once again, this guy is different: he doesn’t mention anything about my accent or change in language. He repeats himself. “What’s your name?”

I had heard him the first time, but I hadn’t expected him to ask something  _ from me _ , of all people. Something in my gut told me that this guy was genuinely like this, and it wasn’t an act, no matter how much I may believe it to be. “Ask me later.”

He pauses, looks up at me quizzically. “Later?”

I nod. “ _ Oui _ , later.”  _ Plus tard. _ “Did you not hear me?”  _ Mon dieu. _ How dense is he?

The freckled man hesitates, shaking his head. “No, I did. I guess I’m just…confused.” Satisfied with the progress he’s made on the tire, he moves to the opposite one in the back, on the passenger side. Before I can stop myself, I roll down the window near to him so I can hear what he has to say. “Do you go to school here?”

Pff. I didn’t even finish high school.  I don’t let him know that; I don’t even answer his question. He doesn’t seem to notice. Instead, he continues to speak.

“My parents are from a little town in Pennsylvania—you probably haven’t heard of it—”

“Try me.” I don’t even know where this place called Pennsylvania is, or how far it is from New York. I don’t even like talking to people; why am I challenging him and making an effort?

He appears in the passenger side window and perks up at that, gawking at me. “Jinae.”

I scoff and give him a smirk. The wind had tousled some of his hair, causing a few cowlicks to form at the top. I ignore the way my stare lingers around it. “You must take me as some sort of fool.”

My answer causes an ear-splitting (I hope his ears split) grin, and he proceeds to free the third tire. “My parents lived there for years. I was born there, but we moved here when I was still a baby. Something about work? Or it might have just been easier for them.” He pauses, looks at his work, and then gazes at me through the window. His eyes are like warm chocolate, swirling with light flecks of gold in their depths. “I’m Marco, by the way.”

“Marco.” He scampers in front of the car and begins to clear the path for the last tire. One more and then I can be free from this ear-chattering chipmunk.

“Yep! I’m finishing up college right now at Trost U. I had to stay behind a few years to save up some money. Thankfully, they still took me in. Now I just have one more year and I’ll be on my way to New York City.”

A few things concern me at his words. He had to “stay behind a few years”? For what? He must be around my age (or at least he looks like it), and he’s on his way to a big city? To do what? In such a short span of time, I discover that I care so much about this freckled piece of human that has to be an angel in disguise and calls himself Marco, and I don’t even know his last name.

Marco steps away from my car, glancing at the tires with a small nod. His finger brushes against the underside of his nose, and I think my heart stutters a bit in my chest. The quirk was simply endearing. Nothing more.

“I think you should be free to go,” he says with a nod. He smiles at me and leans against his      shovel. “Try it.”

I keep my eyes on him as I cautiously swing my legs back in the car and shut the door. Throwing the car into reverse, I’m able to back out of the spot despite the few lumps of snow I hit along the way. Looks like his way worked after all. I can see from here that Marco’s beaming with pride, and he nearly slips as he runs over to my side again. If only he hadn’t caught himself.

“It worked!” He cheers in triumph, beaming enough for the both of us. My reaction was more of a, so to say, begrudgingly satisfaction, purely focused on the fact that now I could go home and return to my peace. The only thing stopping me was Marco.

I truly don’t care for people, not since people my age showed me just how nosy they can be, asking me questions and getting upset when I was uncomfortable answering them. But I knew I couldn’t leave the parking lot without giving this guy something to show my gratitude. That was a custom, wasn’t it? Or perhaps my knowledge in that area was more limited than I initially assumed.

“So,” I begin, reaching for my wallet in my pocket, “ah…” This is the part that got me. Of all the social interactions involving complicated words, I am most terrible with a “thank you”, English or French. In French, it’s because, even as my native language, general politeness is not a part of my vocabulary; it hadn’t been for a while. And it’s just as bad in English, with special thanks to that cursed “th” sound.

Instead, I rather awkwardly shove a few bucks in his hand, not sure of the amount, just wanting to move on and just be a distant memory in this guy’s life. He must have a lover to go see, or a family to care for, or something. 

Marco stares at the money as I toss it at him, but he shakes his head and laughs quietly. It’s enough to stop my escape attempt, and I gaze up at him in confusion. “You don’t have to pay me. I didn’t do it for money.”

I frown at that. So maybe it wasn’t the custom here—or, at least, for him it wasn’t. “What do you want then?” I ask, not wanting to explain  _ why _ I want to give him something, and hoping he doesn’t ask for an explanation.

He pouts, but it’s not sad; it looks more like he’s thinking, his tongue poking out to lick his lip as he ponders on my question. When he comes to his conclusion, he grins and looks at me as if he had just solved a worldwide epidemic. “Let me be your friend!”

If I wasn’t already sitting, I might have fallen over from his declaration.  _ Moi? Vous ami? _ Impossible. No one wants that from  _ me _ , of all people—for a good reason, at least. “Y-you want me to be your… _ friend _ ?”

“Well, yeah!” He nods, though now he seems unsure. Or, at least…shy? “That’s what I said. Everyone needs someone they can trust.”

I want to tell him he’s wrong, that not everyone  _ needs _ someone like that when they have themselves. But I know it wouldn’t be the right thing to say to him, at least not now. Eventually. “What makes you think—”

“I told you a lot about myself.” He interrupts me as if desperate to get the words out, and he seems apologetic for what he had done. But I don’t press him on it; I let him continue. “I got your car out of the snow, and you didn’t want to tell me anything about yourself. I don’t even know your name.” Marco smiles, weary and almost pleading, a polite request to be let into my personal bubble. “Please?”

This is ridiculous. He shovels snow away from my tires, he gives me conversation, and the least he asks for is my friendship. If that’s all he wants, no money or gifts, why can’t I just give it to him?

_ Because that’s not what Jean Kirschtein does. You hide from people, not face them. _

And yet he was so nice. So kind, so sweet, so handsome. So addicting. This stranger was…actually making me interested in talking to someone, even though I knew I would never be able to accomplish it. 

“Here, I’ll give you my number.”

His number? What am I supposed to do with that?

Marco shifts through his pockets, in search for what I’m not sure. But when he comes up empty-handed, he chuckles sheepishly and looks at me once more. “Do you have a pen and paper I can use for a second?”

I hand him a pad and pen I had stored away in the glove compartment, and he scribbles down a series of numbers that I already regret having in my jacket pocket. It wasn’t because of Marco, not really. He seems nice enough, very genuine, probably one of those people who volunteers at animal shelters and visits children’s hospitals because he wants to bring happiness to someone else. And despite my lack of social interaction, he is admittedly handsome in a charming sort of way, like he could sweep me off my feet with a few romantic words and have me in his bed, naked, in a matter of seconds.

My bad feeling stems from the expectations of his reaction when he finds out just how much of a disappointment I am.

x-x-x

“Jean.”

“ _ Hmm? _ ”

“Jean. That’s my name.”

“ _ Oh—ohh, Jean! Hi! _ ”

I didn’t think that that’s how my friendship with Marco Bodt would come to be, but I guess there has to be a misfortune in our lives once in a while.

On Wednesday afternoon, three days after he had freed my car from the snow, I find myself dialing the number I had been given a few days earlier and waiting in unappreciated impatience for Marco’s light northern American accent to pick up. Part of it was to give him a chance; three days was enough, after all, and he deserved a phone call, a last-ditch effort to get out of the pit he had landed in. It is not because I had been staring at a blank canvas for two days and had nothing else to do. I am Jean Kirschtein, reclusive painter, after all.

Our first conversation lasts for two hours, mindless banter that I try to dance my way around in order to entertain him. It’s difficult, because Marco makes it seem so easy, and it’s so frustrating, yet I am thankful. When I fall short, he is able to pick it up, somehow, with perfect rhythm. We slip into this routine of long phone calls, and I find myself tapping on the contact I had created for him constantly, a ritual I perform every other time we talk. 

“ _ So you commission paintings for people? _ ”

“Mhm, for the most part. They email a request and address; I paint it and send them the finished product; they send me the money.”

“ _ What if they don’t? _ ”

“Then they will have a very angry Frenchman to deal with.”

Even if we are formed from these moments, it does not push aside the fact that he is somehow able to weed himself into the same place. It is not a place I want to go, but he seems so persistent in heading there.

“ _ Jean? _ ”

“Hm?”

“ _ Why won’t you tell me more about yourself? _ ”

I have yet to tell him anything personal: my boring journey to America, my education, where I live—not my address, but surrounding-wise. I learned that he resides in a quaint apartment in downtown Trost, the bane of my existence when my parents moved there after I bought my house. He’s going to college to study political science, and he hopes to become a lobbyist someday and emphasize legislation for the LGBT+ community. Marco knows I paint and sell my works frequently, and he is aware of my fluent French. In fact, think he's starting to pick up on it.

“Have you ever tried an eclair?”

“ _ An eclair?  _ Non _ , I don't think so. _ ”

I had been painting a still-life of a new set of flowers my  _ maman _ had sent me (her habit, I guess, to give me things to paint) when he said that, and I created a splatter of vivid green against delicate pink petals. His small denial in soft, if rough, French filtered butterflies into my stomach. “ _ P-Pardon _ ?” I manage to choke out, stifling it in my elbow.

“ _ Uhh, _ ” he pauses, as if to consider my current state, “ _ I haven't tried one? _ ”

I hide my embarrassment with a huff, frowning at the askewed paint smear. “You have broken my heart, Bodt.”

“ _ That’s what my last boyfriend said. _ ”

“Marco!” I try not to laugh, but I spew out his name in a swirl of giggles that I become flustered over. My response elicits the same from his end.

“ _ He was a total jerk, I swear! Everyone was waiting for us to end it—my friend Ymir promised a bag of Cheetos and half a bottle of whiskey for whoever could correctly guess when we would break up. _ ”

The following brought us to his details about a two-year relationship he had been in that had started to go sour after Marco spent a late night out with his friends—which even I don’t see the problem in, and I’m a social failure. We chatter about it like gossiping schoolgirls, complete with gasps and groans and hums of endearment (that are nothing more than sarcastic quips we shoot one another. Don’t get any ideas.). Though I cannot help but realize how relieved Marco sounds; when he mentioned his boyfriend, he was almost anxious, and I could imagining him shyly bowing his head, kicking his feet at the ground, maybe even tucking a strand of hair behind his head. Perhaps he thought I wouldn’t approve of him? To be completely honest, I don’t see anything wrong with who he, or anyone, loves. If they make you happy, you should be able to go for it.

Two weeks later,  _ maman _ notes how different I've been when she comes over for lunch one day, and she presses a hand against my forehead. “Are you sick?” She wonders—in English, her personal reminder to get me to speak it more often. She's full of those “personal reminders” and habits. “You're acting strange.”

“I'm fine,” I huff and scuttle back into the kitchen. The front entrance of the cottage was split between the living room and kitchen. Straight ahead was my bedroom, an extra space I used as my workroom, and the bathroom. It was all decorated simply, though not without some nice form of it—I am French, after all. I tried to leave my mother in the living area, but she followed, persistent as ever. 

“You don't usually speak English around me.” She muses behind me, one hand taking the glass I had been drinking from and sniffing it. “Are you drunk?”

“ _ Maman! _ ”

“It's a genuine question!”

_ Genuine _ . Like Marco, the closest thing I have to a friend since…since I came to America, really. No one else was able to nab that title. I think this is a happy feeling, though I can’t be too sure. I feel happiness when I receive the package of French wine I had ordered, and it runs through my veins when I complete a painting that turned out much better than I had intended. But I have never had something like this happen to me, and it’s intoxicating, and frightening, and I want to run from it and embrace it at the same time.

Another week passes full of phone calls and text messages, and I awake one morning to a text from Marco and a numerous amount of numbers I don’t recognize. It’s an invitation to a Thanksgiving feast at his house, and he’s supposedly invited me, the quirky art Frenchman who doesn’t know the first thing about talking to a person. He wants me, Jean Kirschtein, to come to an American holiday celebration, one I know so little about, and he expects me to  _ go _ ?

I don’t think I’ve ever called him so quickly.

“ _ Morning, Jean! _ ”

“What are you trying to do to me?”

Quick, to the point. That’s what it needs to be.

“ _ I don’t get what you mean, _ ” he yawns into the receiver, and I bite back an exasperated groan. Can he be anymore obnoxious?

“Your invitation,” I explain for him. “The one you sent through text?”

“ _ Oh yeah. It’s a yearly thing my friends and I do. _ ” I know what friends he’s talking about without him having to mention them; he likes to talk about them. Ymir, Bertolt, Armin, Sasha, some others I can’t recall as easily—he chatters on about them so much, I feel like I know them without having to be introduced. “ _ It’s my turn this year, and I wanted to invite you. _ ”

“They don’t have a problem with it?”

Marco laughs quietly, and his voice drifts a little farther, not enough to impair my hearing him, but enough for him to sound slightly distant. I must have been put on speaker. “ _ Check your messages. _ ”

I pull away to check and sure enough, there’s a barrage of texts questioning the presence of the new number that none of them have seen before. And it’s…startling, to say the least. I haven’t been bombarded with this many questions in a very long while.

‘ _ marco whos the new guy?! _ ’  
‘ _ u have a new piece of mancandy and u didn’t tell us??? _ ’  
‘ _ tell us his name so we can check out his facebook we need 2 approve this shit _ ’  
‘ _ he better bring alcohol or hes not invited _ ’

“ _ Ymir’s the one asking about alcohol _ ,” Marco informs me, and I scoff at that. Ymir: freckled, gay, alcohol-thirsty journalist who works for Buzzfeed, a place I’ve never heard of before. “ _ The others are Connie, Reiner, and Eren. _ ”

I almost ask about the last name for clarification, because I know an Eren as well, unfortunately, but I don’t question it. After all, the Eren I know could be different from Aaron, or even Erin. These names have sounded familiar to me for a couple weeks now; it must be me overworking my brain.

“How badly do you want me to go?” I ask in a groan, because I already don’t want to attend. There are going to be too many people there, too many strangers, and they’re already thirsty for information. Even if Marco hasn’t talked to them about me, I already know the questions they’ll be asking will be ones I have no intention of answering. That’s why I left high school, and it’s why I live in a cottage that’s just as reclusive as my attitude.

“ _ It would be great if you could! _ ” Marco exclaims. “ _ They’re really not that bad, even though they may seem like it; they just want what’s best for me. _ ”

I suspect they’ll be like guard dogs when I walk in, but that’s neither here nor there. From what I’ve already gathered, some of them probably  _ are  _ dogs.

Another text, this time from Marco, brings another onslaught of texts I dread when I read them, not only because of their content, but because of the outcome I’m going to face come Thursday (if I haven’t died from my own emotions before then, that is).

‘ _ guys it’s just jean, i’ve told you about him before. he’s my french friend, remember? _ ’

He talks about me to his friends? How much has he told them? (Not much, since he still knows less than a handful of information about me.)

‘ _ wait jean? as in jzhan? _ ’  
‘ _ OH FRENCHIE YEAH _ ’  
‘ _ Is he the guy you won’t shut up about? _ ’  
‘ _ @ Mika, he’s also the guy Marco spilt his Starbucks over when Connie asked if they’re dating. _ ’  
‘ _ ok but is he bringing alcohol _ ’  
‘ _ seconded _ ’  
‘ _ thx rye _ ’

I have many questions, several of them angry, some concerned, a few flustered, all surrounding these people I have been presented with. But I know that they are nothing to the questions Marco has for me. I have told him nothing about me or my life, and what he does know, it’s little and not enough when compared to what he’s revealed. And that’s not fair at all. He’s the first and only friend I have, the freckled angel who wormed his way into my life with a friendly smile and a helping hand. It could have been anyone he would have helped, but it was  _ me, _ Jean Kirschtein, the recluse.

The least I can do for him is to repay the favor he has given me.

“Marco.”

“ _ Yeah Jean? _ ”

“Are you alone? At your flat?”

“ _ For a few more hours, yeah. Why? _ ”

“…can I come over? Now?”

x-x-x

I haven’t seen Marco since that first Sunday a few weeks ago, and since then, my mind has been bogged down with seeing him again. Though my car has enough gas in it, I don’t venture out into the real world. I paint and I laugh and I cook and I live, on my own, with only his voice through a mobile device to keep me company. I know it’s not his preferred method of conversing with his friends. I can tell when he chatters about the ones he sees in person, and I know it’s different for him. But I don't think it’s a bad different; phone calls are what we have. It’s our shared way of communicating with one another, all because of a recluse who doesn’t want to face the real world because he’s too paranoid about what they’ll say or ask about his accent, his French, his home country.

Marco tells me where he lives, confused and excited and probably still half-asleep, and I sit in front of an empty canvas. I had added his address into my phone, so I’ll be able to put it into my navigator to get to his apartment. I prefer the quiet of my cottage more than anything, but I know that he’ll appreciate me going out of my way to come to his place. But not without a release of the stress and anxiety that has welled within my chest. I need to let it out.

My speciality in painting is anything but a person. I can give you a field dotted with flowers in the first bloom of spring, birds soaring overhead to start their life anew. If you want an old English castle, worn from the years it’s been standing through, the wars it’s seen, the people it’s sheltered, that can be arranged. A vase of flowers bathing in sunlight from a nearby window is something I enjoy painting. I have never been able to successfully put a person on canvas; it’s not my skill.

But that day, after I hang up with Marco and agree to see him in an hour, I put the first person onto the white plain that makes me satisfied.

x-x-x

Ninety minutes later, hands cleared of paint and mind stress-free, I knock on the numbered door he had given me as his apartment number. The door opens shortly after, and Marco grins when he sees me. It scatters a queasiness inside me, shaking my insides and causing a strange sort of nausea that I don’t know what to name.

“You’re taller than me,” I say to him before he can greet me, and I swear internally at how foolish I sound. Of all the things I could have said, and that is the best I have?  _ Connard. _

Marco laughs at that, and it sounds so much better than being dragged through a few telephone lines. Has it always been that pleasant to? I realize, as he greets me with a friendly hello and an invitation inside, that I have only met him in person once. The bond I call our friendship has been created solely on phone calls.

“Sorry for the mess,” he states as we wander through the front living area to the kitchen. There is little clutter; I don't see the sight he calls a mess. Everything is tidy and clean and friendly, open, homely, like you  _ want  _ to live there, and you don't want to leave. He gestures to a box of donuts on the kitchen table that look grotesquely American. “Take one if you want!”

“ _ Merci _ , but I ate before coming here.” It may be a lie, but after seeing the pink icing on one of the “donuts”, I have lost what appetite I had been holding back.

Marco chuckles at that and takes one out of the box. “Too American for you?”

I try to withhold a snort, but it comes out regardless, accompanied by a small smirk. “Everything is too American for me.”

“Suit yourself!” He shrugs and bites into one side. A few crumbs splatter as he talks with his mouth full. “My roommate brought them, but I’m sure she wouldn’t mind if you had one.”

Historia: very tiny, very kind, very intimidating when someone thinks they can get away with bullshit. Marco told me once she made a man twice her size cry for hitting on her and, quote, “treating her like a piece of ass that was allowed to go out for the night.”

For a moment, I don’t know what to do or say, and I simply stare at my feet. Marco doesn’t know why I’m here, what I was so urgent to avoid, who I am or how I landed in America in the first place and had to be cursed with this life. I cannot see what he views inside of me. I cannot begin to comprehend it. 

“Marco…” The way his name settles on my lips, in a very foreign but very smooth accent, rolling the “r” softly, as opposed to his coarse tenor that ripples out very northern sounds, sends a shiver through his body. He leans forward and takes my hand, and I let him without protesting. The contact renders me from doing anything aside from gazing into his eyes and wishing I could drown in the warm chocolate that brews there. He returns my staring with a soft smile, lips falling into the familiar movement without haste but in a tender sort of way. He knows he has to be careful around me, for I might break if I’m handled with anything less than a feather’s touch.

I break away, because I am fully aware of the way my heart has sped up in my chest and bangs against my ribs. I want to kiss away— _ non, non,  _ I can’t—that frown that caresses his face—he can’t be with a disappointment like me—and it shatters me inside to see him appear so  _ broken _ , just because of me—I’ll only bring him heartache,  _ mon dieu _ —

I tell him everything. I don’t know how I start, and my English is terrible throughout my entire monologue, but I tell him my family’s decision to go to America because they wanted to. I tell him about the curiosities I faced in school, at first because of my being from France and then because of my accent being so foreign and so different from what they were used to. I tell him about my being a piece of art, of being observed and prodded and asked the meaning of, and finally having enough and demanding I be taken out at age sixteen. I tell him about the house I found when I was seventeen, and how I moved in at eighteen, with a promise to learn how to drive and to make a solid living of myself as whatever pleased me so that I may live there. Only when I fulfilled that was I able to live by myself, five years ago, and I tell him about the house I love so much yet that is so deserted,  _ oh how you would hate it Marco, _ it’s so far away from people, you would despise it so much—with me as your only company—

And when I finish, by telling him how he is the first and only friend I have ever had, I cannot take it and I fall into a chair in the kitchen, exhausted and flustered and wanting this beating thing in my chest to  _ just stop _ so I don’t have to see his face. I deny him of any pity, any sympathy, he may want to give me, for I have chosen this life for myself. I brought it to this point of solitude, of solid reclusion and utter despair that no one would ever want to own. I apologize for ever involving him in the friendship of a painter who is too afraid of the world because he is a stark contrast against the stars and stripes of their hearts and minds, and he is too much of a tricolored  _ bleu, blanc et rouge _ to function correctly in their world—

“Stop that.”

Marco takes my hand again, just when I submerge myself into my self-disgust, and he pulls me back out in one swift movement. I try to scramble free, but I only end up with a hand on my shoulder and a freckled nose nearly touching mine from how far he leans in.

“You make yourself out to be a terrible person,” he whispers, and I shudder at the hot breath that lingers with mine. “There’s nothing wrong with feeling that way, and whoever told you otherwise is wrong.”

“Isn’t it common knowledge?” I snap back, not wanting to argue with him on this. He shouldn’t be wasting his time on me. “I’ve been this way for  _ years _ , Marco.”

“It’s only common knowledge if everyone thinks like that.” He squeezes our entwined hands, and I want to kiss the freckles that layer his hand and dot his cheeks and swarm my mind when I close my eyes. I want to do so much for him, and yet I know I can never have him. I am not allowed to disappoint him like that.

I wish I can give him a better friendship than he has received from me. But we both know, without it being said, that what he has seen from me is the best he will get from my hands. I want to apologize, over and over, but he won’t accept any of it, because he does not have my eyes and therefore will not see what I see in me. Or maybe he does and he just doesn’t turn it into as big of a problem as it needs to be.

If only I could follow his ways. If only I had met him sooner. Maybe, then, my finished product would have been a lot nicer to see.

x-x-x

I forget how long I had stayed at Marco’s, but I know that it is well into the afternoon when we finally say our goodbyes. We stayed unmoving at the table I had plopped down in, my head resting against his shoulder and his chin pressed against the top of my mop of brown. He smells of vanilla and apples, and a clean sort of smell that clogs my senses in the most pleasant way. It ties in well with the warmth his embrace encloses me in, and I find myself dizzy from how much I cling to this moment, this aroma, this feeling of absolute safety. 

When I stand outside of his flat, prepared to leave, I find the words lost to me. Marco doesn’t look my way either, doing that nervous tick of his where he scratches under his nose. I had seen him do it at our first meeting, and I recognize it now being done with a shy tint to his complexion. When he looks back up at me, he smiles, and I find myself rooted to the spot.

“ _ À plus tard _ , Jean.”

I do not respond, as he shuts the door and gives me no space to reply—if I could even manage a fresh batch of words to use. He has taken them from me with that single phrase, so smooth and melodic and  _ accurate _ . Has he been practicing?

_ À plus tard. _ See you later.

My end of our phone conversations always ended with that phrase. I never wanted to say goodbye to him. I told him as such when he asked about it recently, as embarrassing as it might have been. And now he has gone and taken that phrase, and used it because  _ he doesn’t want to say goodbye to me. _

I return home and get to work on preparing for Thursday.

x-x-x

As soon as Monday begins, I lodge myself in the kitchen, trying to find a recipe for dessert that I hope will be the only one of its kind there. I know about the friends of Marco’s I will be eating dinner with on Thursday, though I do not know them personally. It fills me with a fear that something will turn out bad, one way or another, and I will fail to impress anyone. His friends could hate me, I could fail Marco in some way I do not yet know how to do, or perhaps my deciding not to go will ruin the bridge between me and my freckled friend. I am terrified of that thought, so I busy myself to make this dinner a perfect night.

I practice my English in the mirror with easy phrases and difficult sounds; writing is easy, and hearing and understanding is easier, but speaking is difficult. The pronunciations are different, and we do not have an “h” or “th” in our alphabet of sound. But I try to form them the best I can and avoid my accent’s replacements for them. I remind myself of manners, and brush up on my knowledge of American culture for this holiday; something about native American tribes coming together with British pilgrims? It sounds unsettling, in my opinion.

I do not talk to Marco in the span of three days that I have to prepare. He made an attempt to call me, but he was unable to catch me. It was not because I was ignoring him, though I don’t know if I would have been able to say anything if I had picked up, and I never returned his calls. But whenever I was away from my phone was his deciding it was the best time to call me. That is the honest truth.

When Thursday comes around, I triple-check everything I have prepared in broken English fragments. Clothes: pressed and clean, slightly formal but still leaning on casual. Shoes: shined. Hair: the best it can get. Face: clean, shaven, smooth, as long as ever. English: as good as it can get, but definitely the best I have achieved. Wine: exquisite without a test; I know it will be satisfying. Pie: smells nice, looks nice, should taste nice as well. I wring my hands once the time comes to leave, and nearly forget the items I have decided to bring with me. My mind is scrambled and frantic; I want to do good tonight. I have to.

Marco scheduled dinner for four, but said that three or earlier is also an exceptional time to go. I assume his friends will already be there, some drunk, some hungry, some anticipating the arrival of this strange Frenchman they have heard a scarcity about. I am prepared for their questions. Maybe, if I am lucky, I will satisfy them with a few phrases, teach them a few swears, some terms of endearment if they are into that. For Marco, I am going to try.

When I arrive at his building and make my way up the stairs to the front lobby, I nearly turn back. This is too much at once, too much pressure, so much expectation at my failure. How could I have been foolish enough to have this outcome fall on my shoulders?

But I push on down the first floor, to room 104. To turn back now would be letting my fear win. I did this for Marco, to show I am not the image of weakness that may be shown. I need to prove that I am willing to do anything to make him happy, even if I have to face something I am too reluctant to face on my own.

I can hear some commotion behind apartment 104, but it only further confirms that this is the right place. I knock on the door, lightly, though audible enough for a few scrambling feet and an outcry to come from behind the door. Whoever is shouting in there, they are excited about the knock on the door, which swings open to reveal a tiny blonde female, some of her bangs covering her face. I notice, as she sweeps her hair aside to gaze at me, that a small group of unfamiliar faces and of varying heights have gathered behind her to catch a glimpse of me.

“Hi,” I nod to her, anxiously holding up the bottle of wine chilling my palm through my glove. I ignore the way my accent slips up and forgets to add that slight “h” to my poor excuse for a greeting. “I brought wine.”

The short blonde doesn’t react to my declaration despite the growing stares of interest behind her, and she turns her head to call out over her shoulder; “The Frenchman’s here.”

“Jean?!” I hear Marco’s voice from somewhere within his apartment, and he appears shortly after, dusted in flour and exhaustion. His friends step aside to let him come to me, but they remain within sight. Marco looks shocked to see me, and I wonder if my lack of communication is because of it. “I thought you weren't going to come.”

“When did I say that?” I ask, smirking to hide the urge to embrace him against me and enjoy the contact. A. “You didn't really expect me to not show, did you?”

Marco fiddles with the apron tied around his waist, licking his lips and jostling his weight from one foot to the other. “W-well, if you were, you would have responded to my calls.”

Ouch. He has me there. I only shrug, ignoring the way his friends quit their glances between us to glower at me, as if to scold me for ignoring someone so beloved and cherished. “I wanted to make it a surprise for you.”

“Talk about a surprise,” one of his friends, a tan freckled woman, muses from inside, and Marco groans.

“Come on, let him in, Mar!” Another offers, this one taller and louder and broader in the shoulders. “He brought wine and pie with him.”

“It's homemade,” I add. “Apple, too.”

“Can we have that now?” Another friend asks eagerly, a brunette with her hair tied back sloppily. 

I can see how Marco falters only slightly before he takes the wine and pie from my hands, but not without pulling me in for a hug in the threshold of his apartment. I stiffen instantly, but I remember who this is, not where we are, and wrap my arms around him regardless, trying to hold back the smile that threatens to split my face. That same warmth, that vanilla and apple smell, that genuine Marco feel, returns to my senses and fills me to the brim. I must be dreaming, for this is not reality. This is too good to be real. 

“ _ Merci pour venir _ ,” he whispers in my ear. Thank you for coming. 

“ _ Merci pour avoir moi, _ ” I reply back. Thank you for having me. 

x-x-x

Marco’s friends pounce on me once I walk in and names are thrown at me from all directions. I remind myself to be cordial, shaking hands and returning hugs when someone decides to be a little too friendly. My attempts to make small talk are failures, as there is so much I am presented with at once, I'm led away before any real progress is made. It’s hard to keep track of them all.

“Is your hair really like that?” The brunette from earlier, Sasha, wonders past a mouthful of bread dipped in olive oil. “Or do you bleach it?”

“It's natural,” I respond, “I don't normally, er, bleach it. It's just because of my, eh…” I struggle, not sure of the word I was supposed to use, or if there even was a word  _ to _ use;  _ merde _ , Jean how could you mess this up already—

“Undercut?” Mikasa, a polite yet quiet girl who seems much too attractive for anyone to try and handle, offers her assistance, and I smile in thanks. 

“Undercut,  _ oui. _ ” Sasha hums at that, brown eyes still roaming the top of my head. I can't decide what she's thinking, though I do not like the possibilities of what it could be.

“You should totally go for a buzzcut, dude,” Connie, another short one, with said hairstyle, beams at me and pats the top of his head. “It's low maintenance, really easy to take care of, no issues—”

“Only losers get buzzcuts, Connie!” Sasha exclaims, sending the two of them into a bickering that both Mikasa and I escape from with a nod at the living room.

I wander some more and run into familiar names that Marco has praised to me before. There's something satisfying in finding out who his friends are after hearing him rattle on about them. The gentle giant that is Bertolt—he really is giant, yet he's as timid as a rabbit—provides a stark contrast to the boisterous, booming Reiner, all muscles and grins  _ and I'm sure it's impossible to have arms that thick. _ Annie is the short blonde who had answered the door, and she quickly proves Marco’s claim that she hangs around them. She’s quiet in a dangerous sort of way, but not without also providing entertainment with her bickering with Reiner. Historia is as tiny and as kind as Marco has described her, and she has the constant protection of a looming, freckled Ymir who has already decided to call me “the Frenchman” and “Lafayette”, neither of which I appreciate.

I am admittedly thrown off when I walk into the kitchen for a drink, thanks to some helpful directions, and find the son of my landlord Eren Jaeger making friendly chatter with Marco while they prepare dinner. He was the Francophone bastard who never left me alone since I can remember, who drove me to the brink of reclusiveness in high school, who brought me to the current lifestyle I am living that has made me unhappy for  _ years _ , and I almost want to sob at how  _ friendly _ he is with  _ mon meilleur ami— _

“Jean, right?” A short blond with his hair pulled back asks, suddenly appearing and startling me from my anger-induced state of bewilderment. He holds out a hand for me to shake with a friendly smile, yet there is something daunting in the way he eyes me like an analysis in a chemistry lab. “ _ Enchante. Je m’appelle Armin. _ ”

Well at least he didn't ask me to blabber on about what language I speak. In fact, none of them have commented on my accent (my English has improved but not by a lot—just enough to make me proud) or have pressed me with a variety of questions. What little small talk I can manage with them before I am led away, they do not press me for information or anything. Instead, they treat me as if I am one of them and have been around them for years instead of a few minutes.

Armin is the only one (as far as I know) who knows enough French to hold a conversation with me, and I am thankful he uses it now. It's a sort of normalcy I did not expect, and the use of it eases a bubbling in my chest I become aware of at its demise. This is the most I've gotten out of a social gathering in a while; the last time, it was for pure business, between a few bigwigs who were interested in and bought my art. But now, especially after Armin and I converse in simple French, just like I had done earlier in English, it is not as bad. I am more confident, more sure of myself, and now more aware of what Marco has done for me. 

It's not until Eren interrupts, after his eyes narrow in surprise when he recognizes me, and asks us for a drink that I realize what has been done. This is not just an annual dinner tradition with his friends; it's all molded in a way that aimed to get me comfortable from the start. I was never asked questions about my origin or my education or my accent, though I offer a few friendly phrases that break the ice for them, just a little. They like to hear the different phrases, most of them one-worded, that sound so strange and, some admit, “so wrong” on their tongues. But they are polite about it and even compliment French for what it's worth, and I know they're trying. Because how else could they have known I fail to socialize with others? How else could they have learnt of my weaknesses to their culture? How else could they have known to make me comfortable in the best way that they could, and that was to just be casual but not intrusive, while still maintaining a bit of themselves?

I am called in to help set the dinner table with everyone else, and a dozen bodies maneuver around the same space to move food and drinks from the kitchen to the long rectangular table that extends to the living room. Some of us make it easy and wait for other dishes to be brought to us: Bertolt, Historia and I do so patiently and in small tidbits of conversation, waiting when a common-minded soul like Annie or Mikasa or Armin hands us a dish and tells us the best place to put it. Not everyone follows through with this: Ymir and Reiner ignore the offered assistance of their partners (which I soon learn to be Historia and Bertolt, respectively) to argue over plates, while Sasha and Connie zoom past and hurry to place down whatever they hold so they can get to dinner faster. Eren and Marco try to direct the lot of us, but with four roughhousing and creating more chaos than is necessary, they don't get far.

It is soon after everything has been prepared, and seats are being made (Sasha instantly claims one for me, between her and Marco thankfully), that I wander in the kitchen to find my freckled friend, slightly worn yet also relieved that everything went well for preparing their meal. Eren is still standing around when I enter, and I can see he opens his mouth to speak, but he is persuaded to leave by a holler from the dining room. He leaves the kitchen to me and Marco, and the confidence I had had before suddenly evaporates. I have been incorporated into this man’s life in a way no one asked for, but in a way he wanted because he cares. I can see it in the way he glances at me and then shies away, rubs underneath his nose with a single finger and a shy chuckle. He's just as nervous as I am; the air between us is alive with the tension.  

“You need to smile more,” he says, startling me from my train of thought.

Smile? I snort and lean against the counter, nearly slipping when my hand comes across a wet spot. Marco laughs under his breath, and I only increase his smile when I glower at him. “Smiling isn't something in my vocabulary,” I say. Surely he knows that by now.

He shrugs; “Maybe. But you did it a lot tonight. You…” Warm chocolate steers clear for a second,  _ come back to me _ , and he gives another anxious chuckle. “You look really nice when you smile.”

I move closer to him, setting my hands on either side of the counter behind him, trapping him where he stands. He gulps audibly, and I watch the way his Adam’s apple bobs at the movement. I want to set adjacent pecks alongside it, parallel kisses that transform into maroon love bites that only I am allowed to place and claim as  _ mine— _

I am just as nervous as he is. It's been over three weeks since we met, and I feel so strongly for him. I see us kissing, holding hands, sharing secrets under covers of satin and a warmth I never knew existed. I struggle to find an image of us in our own space, our own home with  _ children _ and  _ pets _ and  _ marriage _ . Those are much too far away for me to reach. I can touch them, but just barely; my hand goes right through them. Are they even there? Is that a possible state we can reach?

I can't tell what anything is anymore. I have no clue if this is right or wrong, failing or succeeding. Everything about this moment, a swirl of warmth, of apples and vanilla and sweets, of a freckled angel who dug my car’s tires free from snow and only asked to be my friend in return: it’s all so surreal. I like him because he is so brave, to do what I can only dream about, to smile without fear and befriend anyone who falls within range of a friendly grin and helping hand. I like him because he enjoys talking to me and does not mind my accent or mispronunciations or misunderstandings. He does not judge me poorly, even if I may believe he sees more in me than I can see in myself. But I understand now that it is not him seeing more than what is there; it is him seeing what I am unable to view.

I like him because he gives so much and wants only my friendship in return.

“You have done a lot tonight,” I finally whisper to him. Our mouths are so close,  _ mom dieu _ , too far away, and I can feel nervous little puffs of air against my lips.

“So you enjoyed yourself?” Marco asks.

I nod. “Mhm. I did. I am.” Present tense, to let him know I have not stopped. 

He sighs, smile faint and gentle and  _ oh let me kiss it, s’il te plaît _ . I want to give him everything I am, everything I have, everything I can be and will be. He is my friend, and I love him dearly, and I love him beyond the friendship we possess. I love him as only a husband can love his spouse, as only a wife can caress her partner’s cheek and whisper tender words to, as only a French recluse who paints all day can feel for a goofy, freckled angel.

Just as I believe the kiss is about to be sealed, a kiss we may not be ready for yet, Connie and Sasha come spiraling into the kitchen in demand for food. Marco and I move apart instantly, just as the rest of their friends pull the duo back and suggest that we, to quote, “take your time!” Though it is nice that they put in the effort, though not nice that they let the two rogues in, the moment is shattered. We stand and stare at our feet, unsure of what to do, before I decide to head for the dining room and end the wait. I might not know when I'll find my next chance, but I'll know that if there's any wait, it'll be worth it. 

“ _ Plus tard? _ ” Marco asks, suddenly, before I can leave. I stare back at him, shocked at his blurted phrase, but even more that he wants to continue this with me. His eyes wander until they find mine, and I can see the tension dissipate from his shoulders, replaced with a begging hope that his offer is taken. “Can we continue later.”

My smile reassures him enough to elicit a similar reaction.  _ Plus tard _ : it doesn't sound like too bad of a wait. 

x-x-x

It is April, the seventh, and I am still waiting for that later.

There has been too much change to list since the last memory, but I will put what matters most at the forefront. Marco and I grow closer, our friendship consisting of phone calls that are only replacements for when we cannot meet face-to-foace. We see more of one another in person, for coffee or meals or to help pack away groceries and belt out whatever songs are being blasted from his phone. He opens me up and brings me to life, and we brush against  _ plus tard _ , can feel it within our reach, before something disrupts it and we are pulled back.

After being apparently approved by ten others because of a “successful Thanksgiving test”, I find myself with a new group of friends I would never imagine having. I go out more often, for drinks and parties and ridiculous nights on the town that I swear have resulted in noise complaints. I actually worry about holiday gifts for a change, and I invite friends over, whether it's only a handful or all of us.

I find a surge in business, specifically in Trost, and I suspect my friends may have something to do with it when they see what I am capable of. More commissions come in, and there is a demand for more quantity. At Valentine’s Day, I get behind an amount that I must accomplish by the dreaded date. I venture outside of my home to work now, using my car more often than I ever have. I am constantly covered in different colors and materials. My fingernails suffer greatly because of it. 

It has been a little over four months. I like where I am with this new group I can call  _ mes amis _ . I learned after Thanksgiving that their questions about me and who I am still brewed at the surface, and it just took time, on both ends, for them to be drained. I finally get the courage to approach Eren, and he spends four hours at my house, asking questions and finding out all he can about France (or at least my knowledge on the lifestyle, which I have shamelessly followed for all my life). Eren and I form a strange sort of bond over it, developed with wine and cheese, and I can see the way he takes great care to not scare me off. I pay him back by satisfying him, opening up for him and telling him about this world he wants to visit. It works out, even when he goes too personal or too much and I am too little or too put-off.

Of my new friends, I find my relationship with Mikasa is unique between us. Although she doesn't speak French, she understands enough from Armin and Eren to get by. Little asides by me are often caught by her, which is rather unappreciative if I might add. But it is something we have, and aside from Marco, I talk to her the most. I especially enjoy our coffee meetings when she's not in class (getting a doctorate in something incredible) and I'm in town for work, which happen more often now that spring is truly here. The seventh of April is no exception, even though I refused to let any of these fools to get me anything. I walk into the cafe we always use and see her already seated, with two cups that she nods to when she sees me. 

“You didn't have to buy me a drink,” I sigh as I sit down across from her.

Mikasa shrugs and sips at her coffee. “My bad.”

I roll my eyes, though the friendly atmosphere still remains. I truly do enjoy being around her; even though she hangs out with the other lot, she is very different from them: not as loud, more polite, doesn't want to know why I still have a heavy accent if I've lived here a majority of my life. She doesn't care; what matters to her is that you're not a dick to the people she cares about. This past February, she threatened a drunk homophobic bastard in the bar we were in for Ymir’s birthday. She's not one you want angry; she's one you want on your side. My only qualm would be her sometimes overprotective attitude over her adopted brother, who just so happens to be Eren Jaeger. But that's neither here nor there.

“How did the tests go?” I ask, in question to the mind-numbing work she's put in recently.

Mikasa frowns and gives a quiet, almost inaudible, groan that I can't help but smile at. “It's as good as it can get.”

“Which isn't a lot.”

“I half-expect them to call it all ‘wrong’ and demand that I do it again,” her voice changes slightly, as if in mocking, “and ‘this time, create something new’.”

I snort at the accusation. “Isn't that what you've been doing?”

“Exactly.” The chuckles I give are enough to warrant an amused smile from her. “Can't be that hard with painting, though.”

“Oh,  _ please _ .” I lean back in my chair with a scowl. “Painting isn't the hard part. It's the ones who want to buy your art that give you the headaches you never asked for.”

Mikasa hummed, a playful smile on her lips. “I would be terrible at it.”

“You think so?”

“Mhm. The bodies would never be found, but then no one would be around to buy my work.”

I barely manage to keep my drink from spewing all over the table, and once I'm sure there's little mess, I join my friend in laughing unabashedly. Moments like these are what I am made of now. Four months ago, there would have been no way I would, or could, believe I would end up where I am. I still remain reclusive, and it still takes a little more for me to open up when all twelve of us are together. But it is something, and I can see that it is no bother to them; what matters to them is that I am around, and enjoying myself, and at least reacting to the horrible jokes they make. And when you're with them, there's no resisting their behavior.

“Do you ever get hot wearing this?” I wonder after we finish our drinks, gently nudging the tail ends of her scarf as we wait outside the cafe, on one of the benches nearby. Her ride was coming by, and I had decided to wait for them to arrive. It was the least I could do; I didn't have any other plans, either way. 

“No,” Mikasa says with a shake of her head. “You should go home now.”

Oh? Maybe I do, after all.

“And why is that?” I ask. It's not that there should be a reason; I was already going there anyway. My parents would be over later tonight for dinner, even though they insisted on making it for me. But that wasn't for another few hours. I realize then that there must be something there, waiting for my arrival. “If Connie's in a cabaret dress and a wig, I'm not going.”

Mikasa snorts at the memory from Annie’s recent birthday. “She still doesn't look at him the same way.”

“He has a great pair of legs. I didn't know a straight male could move like that.”

She smiles, probably holding back a chuckle. “No one’s there in a cabaret dress. I just think you should go.”

“And what will happen if I don't?”

She shrugs. “I guess you’ll miss it.”

Her ride pulls up to the curb in front of us, and we both stand when it arrives. She turns to give me a small, light smile.

“You won’t be disappointed if you go,” Mikasa says before she gets into the car. I wave to Eren, sitting in the driver seat, in greeting, and stay on the curb as they leave, trying to comprehend what she had told me. There wasn’t anyone waiting for me to return: no lover, no roommate, no friend. I still enjoyed the reclusive state that was the little cottage in the middle of nowhere. It helped me return to a peaceful, and calm, state after spending time with the rambunctious people I call friends.

With Mikasa’s words in the back of my head, I decide to give her the benefit of the doubt and head to said house for the day. I had to make sure everything was presentable for my family when they came over; my parents never ceased to bother me with what I was doing right or wrong with my house. Plus, I had time to get things together before they arrived; if I wanted them off my backs tonight, I had to get home quickly.

There is no car sitting in my driveway or anywhere near my house when I arrive. Mikasa’s words still resonate in my head; perhaps the surprise was late? It’s the only thing I can assume as I put the key in its slot and unlock my front door, stepping into a wave of cool air and finding the last thing I had been expecting.

My house is clean, or at least the front half of it is, and there’s a lemon sort of smell that has invaded every inch of space around me. A blue-striped bag sits on the coffee table, beside an opened box of eclairs, delicate and smooth and freshly baked,  _ mon dieu, _ it smells delicious. One of the eclairs is hovering above the box and is held in a hand dotted with soft freckles, the same hand that belongs to a very embarrassed and very surprised Marco. He doesn’t put the eclair down or make a movement towards me, but he keeps my stare level with his. 

So this was what I had to come home to. Marco in my living room (using the spare key I had given him weeks, even months, ago), plopped down on my couch, waiting for me to come home. I recognize the label on the box of eclairs as a bakery downtown my parents usually go to, known for their diverse selection of desserts. It reminds me of a day in November, when we were still in the early stages of our friendship and I discovered that he had never had an eclair before. It was the first time he had spoken French around me, and the moment I become aware of his behavior around me: the kindness, the curiosity, the French.

Marco came to my aid when my car was stuck in a snowbank. He appeared in my phone’s contacts next, and our calls and texts remained at the top of the lists. And then we were in his kitchen, both times with our bodies in close proximity and causing me to realize just how much I like this boy, this foolish man who wants to help others and be a voice for those without one. I can see him in the future, helping others and providing a hand for them to hold and right themselves with. I see it because that’s what he did to a French recluse, a painter who only left the house once a month for supplies. He saw I needed something more than what I had given myself, and he wasn’t going to stop until my vision cleared. The only unexpected event that had occurred was the love of something beyond friendship that had spread throughout my body and took refuge in my heart.

For what feels like years later, Marco stands, the eclair back in the box, and he walks over to me. I shut the door and lock it without moving my eyes from his, and he comes to stand chest to chest with me. We have not been this close since Thanksgiving, standing in the kitchen and wondering when the other was going to lean forward and nab that kiss we both saw was wanted. I open my mouth to speak, but shut it quickly, not sure of what to say or where to begin, or if it would ruin the mood too much.

Marco takes the first step—he always has, for the both of us, as reassurance that the water is fine—and he captures my lips in an ecstatic wave of euphoria I did not know existed until now. I know little about kissing other than what I have been shown from movies (and some other forms of entertainment that I am too embarrassed to write about), so I am sure my experience is greatly outweighed by his. Nevertheless, I grab at his waist and tug him closer, the fabrics of our clothes brushing as he loops his arms around my neck. We separate before we go any further, and our noses brush against one another tenderly.

“So,” he whispers under his breath, and he has to stop as I claim his lips once more. He chuckles against me and then takes my hands in his, squeezing and leading me to the couch. “How about that later?”

I return the squeeze and sit beside him. “The wait is certainly worth it.”

**Author's Note:**

> French:
> 
> casse-toi | fuck off (sorry about it)  
> Merci (beaucoup) | thank you (very much)  
> Maman | mom  
> Mon dieu | my God  
> Plus tard | later (aaaa get it?)  
> Vous ami? | Your friend? (formal)  
> Connard | motherfucker  
> bleu, blanc et rough | blue, white, and red (the French flag)  
> À plus tard | See you later  
> merde | shit  
> mon meilleur ami | my best friend  
> Enchante. Je m'appelle… | Nice to meet you. My name is…  
> S'il te plaît | Please (informal)


End file.
